


To Be Said About War

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Minor Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24643303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The aftermath of the war was catastrophic—people lost, the Hogwarts castle in ruins, and the rubble of the battle was strewn across all of their faces. But the light had won—they had.And then Tom Riddle from 1944 travels to Hogwarts, and everything is infinitesimally fucked again.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

There is something to be said with the after-effects of war—even if you are or were on the winning side.

The battle was won, the light side had conquered. Harry Potter lived on—my best friend with the lightning scar and the almost debilitating hero complex had saved the day, once again. Ron Weasley had kissed me in the heat of the moment (nothing will come out of that, of course nothing will) and I should feel safe. I should be safe, shouldn't I?

But even now, there is something so irrevocably fucked up with me.

There was a clapping sound—and then a flash of blinding white light to the right of me. My ears rang.

I collapse to the floor.


	2. I. Time Traveller

Light, and a commotion, and then suddenly the ground shook so hard—or maybe that was just me, and the exhaustion. I did not know, I could not know.

And then there was a gasp, and Harry—dear, sweet, heroic Harry—was demanding, shouting, pointing his wand at a boy with jet black hair and a gold necklace wrapped around his hands.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Harry demanded. "Speak up, Riddle."

Ron was by my side immediately, pleading with me to stand up, get up, sit down Hermione. And I remember still gasping for breath as that dreadful boy Draco Malfoy handed me some water, and Ron glared at him—Draco Malfoy was a dreadful boy, wasn't he? No, no, not a boy—not a dreadful boy. A man, a broken man. Yes, that was what he was.

"How do you know my name?" The boy—Riddle, had demanded. "What happened to Hogwarts?"

" _You_ happened." Harry barked, and then he petrified that Riddle boy, and the Riddle boy was on the ground. And I thought I was safe—there was a blinding light. And a boy—with jet black hair. And there was Ron, and Draco Malfoy had handed me a goblet of water.

I passed out in Ron Weasley's arms.

———

I wake up, quite disoriented, in a bed. There was soft light coming in through the white curtains of the ceiling high windows, and there was a tall glass of water next to my bed. I heard whispering—familiar voices, Ron and Harry—from outside my door.

The war had been won. We won, the light won.

There had been a boy.

I sit up from the bed, and immediately the world began to spin. I could feel my joints creak and my muscles complain, and I was so _so_ very exhausted. There was a boy with jet black hair and a time turner, and Harry had called him Riddle.

The Riddle boy. Tom Riddle.

No, that is impossible. But—it could be.

I need to make sure.

I move my legs across the bed, and immediately I know that I won't be able to stand on my own. Useless legs, useless useless _useless._ So I take the glass from the beside table and drink all of the water, and there was a vial—pain relieving potion. I drink it too. My muscles sing.

I stand up, grasping the bed for support. And then I walk towards the door—and then it registers that I am in Grimmauld Place, and then I open the door. Harry and Ron are arguing in the hallway. They don't notice me.

"—he says he came from the past—fucking 1944, Ron—it's insane. He somehow found a way to time travel to the future."

"So you're telling me we have boy You-Know-Who here and we're just gonna send him back to the fucking past or whatever?" Ron is scoffing, and Harry is tensing up, and I knock on the wood walls, quite done with this conversation.

"What's going on?" I ask, and Harry is turning towards me, and Ron is too and blue and green eyes look towards one another. I need to know what's going on.

Harry looks relieved, and Ron looks—incensed. "Hermione." Harry breathes. "You're—you're up."

I glare at him. "Well spotted." I say blandly. "The boy Voldemort?" Even now, I still feel the fear.

But we'd won the war—I helped win it. And the fear was ridiculous. He was dead.

Harry looked agitated once again, and Ron look frustrated, like he had had enough of this conversation, and shook his head.

"Yes, he's..." Harry sighs and runs his hand through his face. "This is—it's a fucking catastrophe."

Ron crosses his arms and gestures towards the living room. "Probably better for Hermione if she—if she sits, maybe?"

How uncharacteristically observant for you, Ronald. "It's still hard to walk." And Harry immediately walks to where I am holding on to the doorknob for support, and I sling one of my arms around his shoulder. I feel weak, pathetic. We just won a war—and I could not walk on my own, can't even stand properly. And I wonder if the war was ever really over.

Was it over? And was this a new war?

Harry helps me sit down on the sofa. Ron is still standing up, and I can't help but feel like he's mocking me. Always been mocked, can't help it. Mocked for being brilliant, mocked for my blood, teeth, hair, personality.

I want him to sit down.

It's positively childish of me.

"Who was the boy?" I ask, and Harry just kind of stares at me for a moment. Ron sits down on the couch—not mocking me—and Harry fixes his crooked glasses.

"Tom Riddle." He says. Tom Riddle—the Riddle boy. "From 1944." One, two, three generations ago. Fucking _Voldemort_ was a '40's boy.

"Seventeen." I say. I wasn't asking. He was seventeen in 1944, and he had already killed Myrtle—the insipid ghost—and his father, grandparents. He was already evil.

He was here.

Harry nods, and Ron doesn't look at either of us. "He's wearing the ring." Harry says quietly. "He's magically bound."

"He's—here?" I ask. I immediately regret it when Harry nods, and Ron turns a delicate shade of red. I stare at my hands. I was under the same roof as the boy who would be Voldemort.

"How?" I can feel my blood freezing up. That murderer was here.

"He said he experimented with the time turner." Ron says. "I asked."

They talked to him—this was utter _insanity._

"I thought this was fucking over." Harry said. His green eyes shined with something murderous. "We'll just—we'll send him back. He doesn't know anything."

Ron looked at Harry and just glared. I look at my feet. "We can't just send him back, Harry. And we don't even know if—how can we be so sure he doesn't _know_ anything?" Ron spat.

No, we can't send him back. We don't know how much damage he's done or which timeline he belongs to and, oh God—no one has time travelled more than fifty years. This is horrendous.

My mind starts swimming.

"We'll need to—to ask him. More questions and—who else knows, that he's here?"

"Professor McGonagall." Harry says. "Malfoy. Malfoy helped us move him."

That dreadful boy Malfoy—broken Malfoy. Bigoted bully. Death Eater, he brought Voldemort under their roof.

"Malfoy?" I ask.

Harry looks uncomfortable, and Ron just glares at Harry. "We can trust him."

Oh. "We can't." Ron says. And yes, Ron's right. We can't, we don't know if Malfoy is going to try to revive his old Master.

I can't find my voice anymore, though.

"Take me—" and I inhale sharply, broken gasps leaving my mouth. I feel pathetic, I feel weak. The war was won—no. The war wasn't over. Fuck, has the war even begun? I needed to know—for myself. "Take me to him."

Harry's eyes are blazing. Ron's hair is on fire, anger. And then I remember anger—outrage. And _mudblood_ and blood on the drawing room floor, my arm bleeding out on the parquet. My blood, tears. Anger.

I feel anger.

"No." Ron says. "No, Hermione. Absolutely not."

Anger.

"Why not?"

Anger.

"Are you kidding me? He's—it's fucking _Voldemort_ in there."

And then fire—blazing hot, dripping out my spine. Magic—not fire. Warmth, and then... nothing.

"It's _Tom Riddle._ " I spat. "Not Voldemort yet. I can take it."

Harry looks apprehensive, and he starts chewing on his nails. Nasty, disgusting habit. Offensive.

"Maybe when... you're better." Harry says. "It's not—he's awful."

I look him in the eye. "I can be awful too—don't look at me like that. I can be, if I wanted to, maybe. Just—"

"He might be a _boy_ , Hermione." Harry says. "But he's still—he's still evil and..." he closes his eyes and sighs. "You're still a wreck."

"So are you." I say, and Ron doesn't look at them. Harry frowns, and shakes his head.

"Hermione—"

"I've got nothing to lose, Harry, so it's logical that you—"

"—exactly, Hermione. You've got nothing to lose, and that's—you—fuck!" Ron shouts. He kicks the coffee table, and it burns from his touch. There are scorch marks, and then his hair is blazing again, and I wonder if this is all just a dream.

"Ron, stop." Harry pleads, and I can feel myself crying, I can feel my magic flaring up.

"I thought this was over!" Ron screams, and I can hear myself sobbing, _I thought so too, I thought so too, why isn't it over yet?_ and I can see Harry barely keeping it together, trying to keep _us_ together. I can't tell him it's not working—it isn't.

Why isn't it over, yet?

———

Draco Malfoy visits a lot the next couple of days. He apologizes to me—and I forgive him. Tell him that I have forgiven him long ago. I don't care enough to be shocked that I mean it. Things weren't over yet. He apologizes to Ron, too. Ron doesn't take it as well as I did but he came out of his room only a few days later, and sent an owl to Draco Malfoy telling him he forgave him. It's better than I had anticipated.

I don't miss the way Harry looks at Malfoy—and the way Malfoy looks at Harry. You'd be a fool to miss it, it was glaring. Startling. Ron was purposefully avoiding them, and when I asked him why, he looked at me softly and said that forgiveness didn't mean that he liked him now. It didn't mean friendship. And I had smiled at him, and nodded. I understood, probably better than anyone else.

Tom Riddle was still living under our roof. Nobody else knew of who he actually was—that was wise. I can't stand to think about what would happen if everyone knew that Voldemort was still alive.

Harry and Ron had not let me see him yet. They still thought I was a wreck—and I let them think that. There are still scorch marks on the coffee table, and last night Ron had passed me the salt and our fingers had accidentally touched. I had blisters on my index finger still. Ron had apologized profusely—and I found that I really didn't care. I understood. I was angry, too.

Anger.

Tom Riddle was still living under our roof.

Seventeen year old Tom Riddle.

And it made me wonder if he was still seventeen. Was he still seventeen? Was someone still seventeen and naive and stupid even if they were clever and brilliant and cunning and—a psychotic _murderer_? He was a murderer—less than half a soul. He was seventeen.

A murderer was living under our roof.

He was a murderer. A boy, a murderer—seventeen. Less than a year younger than me. _Younger than me._ A murderer.

———

I wake up earlier than everyone else. It is still dark outside as I slip on my dressing gown and the bunny slippers my parents— _gone, gone_ —have given me on my tenth birthday a lifetime ago. This boy—Tom Riddle—had taken them from me. He was going to pay for it, I would make sure of it.

I slip outside my room, and mercifully, Ron and Harry were still awake. It seems that sleeping still comes naturally to them—and I wish I could say the same.

The floorboards don't creak when I walk past their room (magic, possibly) and I finally arrive to the heavily warded door housing my nightmare.

I knock, I fucking _knock._ How ridiculous. I knocked on this boy murderer's door, and I turned the doorknob. The wards recognize me. The door is unlocked. In my head I try to tell myself that I can do this, I can talk to this horrible boy, I try not think about how broken and weak and _tired_ I am because this boy— _seventeen—_ has torn apart my world.

I have nothing to lose, though.

I open the door.

He is awake, and he is staring right at me.

The first thought that I have is that this boy is gorgeous. The second thought is that he does not look like _Voldemort_ , therefore how can they be the same person? The third thought I have is that he is a murderer.

And then I remember myself. I look him straight in the eye, and he just stares back, unmoving, unrelenting. Not scared of me—well he should be. He very well should be because I have nothing to lose, and I am _tired._

He is sitting on the bed, arms crossed. Resting, _resting._ I feel mocked. Resting. I am so _tired._

The boy furrows his brows, and it's like—he recognizes me. Like he knows me. It is unsettling. So I clear my voice, I straighten my posture and I stare him straight in the eyes. They look black in the dim lighting.

"Riddle." I say, and he arches a brow, arrogant. Even without his magic. Even though he is a prisoner in a pureblood's house surrounded by blood traitors and the spawn of—of filth. Under the roof of the boy who would defeat him.

"Yes." He says, and the word is smooth, coming from his mouth. I want to cry—I want to hurt him. I want to write on his arm with a cursed dagger and I want to make him feel as I did, a lifetime ago.

Why wasn't this over?

"You're from 1944. You—you travelled from the past." I say, not a question. And he just stares at me, emotionless.

"Yes." He says again. I want to hurt him—I want to give him a punishment worse than death. I want to make a mockery out of his worst fear. I want him to know that there are things worse than dying.

"Murderer." I say, and he falters. He is stunned, shocked for a fraction of a second. I catch it. He is shocked. He didn't know we knew. His face is emotionless again.

"Murderer?" He says. He adjusts himself so that he is sitting sideways on the bed, feet on the floor. He looks up at me, and I will not look away. I'll look straight up at him. I have nothing to lose, I remind myself. _Weak weak weak you are weak_ , my brain screams.

Broken. Weak.

"Murderer." I say, and I feel myself nod. Riddle stands up. He is taller than I thought he would be, a foot taller than me. I stare up at him as he stares down at me, and I am suddenly aware of the wand in my pocket. "Why are you here?"

He stares down at me, and purses his lips. "To stop myself."

I hold my breath, and force myself not to hurt him for lying. Carve a lightning bolt on his forehead—for Harry—and a hole into his forearm—for Draco. How dare he try to lie to me?

"From what?" I ask. Let him lie, let him lie all he wants. _Lie lie lie lie lie_ —he will run out of lies. And I will be here when he irrevocably fucks up.

He frowns at me, and stands in my personal space. It takes everything in me not to scream at him—to hurt him and to kick him and to run away and to not be afraid.

His hands reach up. There is something about the arch where his neck meets his shoulder that is familiar to me. I flinch, and he puts his hands down. And I see it again—emotion on his face. Recognition. Anguish. Only for a second, and then it is gone.

"You don't remember," He says, emotionless. "don't you?"

My heart pounds in my chest. I could throw up, I could run now. But I won't, I'll stare up at him. I am strong— _weak weak weak_ _ **weak**_ —and I have nothing to lose.

"Remember what?"

He stares at me, shocked, and I blink. I look down. I grip my wand—just in case. And then he exhales, and steps back back back, away from me. I can breathe again. I look at him again, and he looks at me.

Why isn't this over, yet?

_Seventeen_. A bloody _murderer_. I am in the same room as a _murderer_.

"Hermione."

I bolt.

I slam the door shut.

I scream.


	3. II. Different Planet

_You don’t remember, don’t you?_

Remember what?

* * *

It was raining today.

I walked out and stood on the pavement lining Grimmauld Square.

And I cried for my parents.

For all that I had lost.

* * *

Harry and Draco were talking in a corner. I don’t know what about—could not possibly hear them from here. Ron was avoiding everyone and staying in his room for hours on end. Sometimes when I walk pass, I can hear him crying. I pretend that I don’t know.

I avoid the first door to the left of the corridor religiously.

Tom Riddle was still under our roof.

I haven’t visited him since Tuesday, and it was Monday now. Harry goes in to see him every day. I pretend not to notice how red he is when he walks out—anger. And I pretend not to notice when he clings on to Draco for dear life.

He had found me, last Tuesday. Draco had found me, he was in the kitchen drinking tea and helping Kreacher with breakfast he _found me_ curled up in a fucking ball in front of Tom Riddle’s cell and let me cry into his shirt.

I try to reconcile the memory of this Draco Malfoy to the one who has taunted and teased and bullied me for five years relentlessly. They are not the same. War has changed Draco.

War has changed all of us, perhaps.

Maybe war has changed _him_ as well.

* * *

I sneak into his room again when it is dark. Harry has went to bed early and Ron was still sulking in his room. Draco had looked at me with a solemn look when he went out of Harry’s room just to catch me staring at Tom Riddle’s door. He doesn’t stop me. He just walks into the living room and waits.

I knock on the door again. I put my hand on the doorknob. I turn it.

He is still awake.

He looks at me with that emotionless gaze again, and I have to remind myself to keep it together. It is easier, this time, because I am not as tired. I can do this. I can be strong.

He looks as gorgeous as last time, but he was sitting on a chair with the book in his lap, his posture relaxed. Almost as if he was still a boy. Not _seventeen_ , a murderer. 

“Riddle.” I nod, and he closes the book and sets it aside. A hand on his chin, pondering, analyzing me.

He motions towards another chair, far from him. Like he owns the place, like he isn’t a prisoner. “Sit.” He says, almost softly. But not quite. He was unsettling.

“I have some questions.” I say, and he hums and nods, still looking at me emotionlessly. Why is he so passive? So calm? It infuriates me. How come I am so scared of him?

“I figured as much.” He said and then nodded.

I gulp. I think about my parents, and how it was his fault. His fault that they were gone. I had to hide them from his Death Eaters, so I wouldn’t have to imagine Draco Malfoy—who wasn’t even my _friend,_ he was someone who _bullied me_ , for fuck’s sake—capturing or torturing or murdering them against his will for _him_.

 _Seventeen_ , my mind whispers. _A boy murderer._

He _nodded_ at me, like he was allowing me to speak in his presence. Arrogant, so fucking arrogant.

“How did you know my name?” I ask, and he looked at me straight in the eye. My breath catches in my throat, because there is something so familiar with the way he was looking at me. So familiar, and so _so_ distant.

 _A lifetime ago_.

He blanches, and tilts his head to the right. “We were friends.” He says, simply.

I scoff. I want to gut him and feed his intestines to Crookshanks. “We can’t possibly have been _friends_.” I say. “You were born three generations before me.”

He blanched, and shook his head in astonishment. So strange on him, stranger that it fit him. “So you really don’t—remember?” He asks.

“I don’t.” I say. “What do you even—remember what?”

He stands up and walks towards the bed—towards my seat, and whispers to me, “Read my mind, Hermione.” He says simply, like it’s easy. “In fact, why haven’t you, yet?”

I scowl at him. He was vile, and he really didn’t know right from wrong didn’t he? And he was _prisoner_ , in a time well after his, and he had asked me to _read his mind_. If he wanted me to, then I will not.

“It’s wrong.” I say. And he looks at me incredulously, like he’s surprised that I wouldn’t.

“You’re—“ He gulps. “You’re just as I remembered.”

“Remember what?” I demand. _Remember what remember what remember what?_ Because I remember a lotI remember Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks and Severus Snape and _Albus Dumbledore_ and my _parents_ , who were gone— _gone, gone—_ because of _him._

“Read my mind, love.” He says impatiently. “Just do it.”

“I will not.” I say. “I’m not a fucking imbecile.”

I get out of his room and slam the door as hard as I can.

* * *

“I’m seriously starting to think that this Tom Riddle is from a different planet altogether.” Harry confides one day during breakfast. “He—he talks about stuff that never happened. Maybe he’s just—maybe he’s just fucking with us, or something?”

Ron just looks at the both of them with exhausted and poofy eyes that have felt too much—seen too much. He just wanted to rest, didn’t like the prisoner within the walls of Grimmauld. The prisoner who’s soldiers had killed _Fred_ , and I understand.

But then, something clicks in my mind. _Different planet_.

Could it be—

“Harry, you’re a fucking genius.”

Draco chokes on his tea.

Of course, he could be from a different timeline altogether. He could just be Tom Riddle without all of the sociopathic genocide irrevocably tied to being Voldemort. Just Tom Riddle.

It could be much simpler, he could have simply just fucked up something about his damn timeturner and arrived in a different reality alogether.

Except for the fact that that seemed entirely improbable and so extremely far fetched. But it was something worth thinking about, as this Tom Riddle didn't know anything about Voldemort.

"Harry's a what now?" Draco asks, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. Harry rolls his eyes, and Ron grins for a moment.

"He could be from a different timeline." I say simply, and Ron arches a brow at me.

"A different timeline..." echoes Draco. "That—I mean it _could_ be, aside from the fact that no ones even done it before." He coughs and shakes his head. "Kind of impossible."

Harry looks between the two of them for a second, and then shakes his head. "If it could be done by anyone, it would be Tom Riddle. He was utterly brilliant."

Ron frowns, and for a brief moment his hair burns.

* * *

I visit him again the next day. I knock again, just to be polite. I barge inside, and he is on the desk, writing something with a quill and parchment. His hair was messy, and he was wearing an overlarge white sweater. He almost looked like an angel.

_Angel. Different planet—different._

He frowned at me. Maybe it was because I was grinning like a Cheshire cat or the fact that my hair was messy as all hell or maybe it was because I was angry the last time I visited him.

“You’re not from here.” I say excitedly. He looks confused, and nods his head. “You’re not—from _here._ ”

Tom Riddle rolls his eyes and pushes himself up, off of the desk chair and suddenly he’s taller than me again, and I can’t stop the crippling emotions that are straining on my face. He freezes for a moment, then crosses his arms. Defensive.

“You already know I’m not.” He said. “I’m from fifty years _earlier_ , Hermione.”

“You said you knew me before.” I say, persistent. “From—1944?”

He glares at me, suddenly, like I’m agitating him. I stop, and walk backwards slowly. He rolls his eyes and turns to the side, just as he whispers, “No.”

“No?” I say, suddenly unsure of myself. No? “And actually it’s—fifty four years.”

He looks at me again, and huffs. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m suddenly unprepared for how _beautiful_ he is when he isn’t being so… emotionless.

“No. I know you from 1995.” He says, quietly. “This isn’t—isn’t the first time that I…”

“You knew my name.” I say. “That’s why?”

“Yes.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “You were my friend. My only friend.”

“I was?”

He nodded. “You—you didn’t know, then that I was—“ he lets out a mirthless laugh, and I recoil away from him. He sounded so much like Voldemort. “I was a fucking _genocidal_ piece of shit.” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t want this. You—you helped me then.”

“I’m sorry I don’t remember…” I whispered. “I—I don’t think that. I mean…”

I _helped_ him? He called himself _genocidal_.

“Why did you make the time turner?” I say, softly.

“I wanted to get away.” He says. “My father died.”

“You killed him.” I state. My heart pounds, a reverberating alarm going off in my head. Murderer murderer murderer— _seventeen_. He looks confused—a ruse, _liar_. “You killed him.”

He looks affronted, and then he shook his head. “No, he died because of the war.” He says. I almost believe him, almost. “Some German soldiers killed him.”

 _World War 2_. “You—no, you killed them. Your father and your—your grandparents.” _German soldiers killed him._

“Why would I—why would I kill him?” He asks incredulously. “That’s _insane_. What the fuck?”

“Because you hated him.” I state boldly, angrily. “Because he was a muggle—he abandoned you and your mum!”

He takes a step back from me, like he’s protecting himself. I have to remind myself that he could be from a different timeline. Different timeline, different circumstances, different Riddles. That doesn’t change what I know.

“What the fuck are you on about?” he demands. “My father did not abandon my mum! I didn’t fucking kill my grandparents—what the fuck?”

I persist, “He did! _You_ did! You—she drugged him with a love potion and she—you were born in an orphanage.”

“I was born in our fucking _manor_ , Hermione. My mum she—she died, giving birth to me. My grandparents are still _alive_.” His arms are gesturing wildly now, pointing to me, right, left, up. He growls in frustration and shakes his head. “You—you _knew_ all this, what the fuck?”

My heart leapt out of my chest—he was from a different timeline. I fucking knew it, _I knew it._

“I didn’t. You— _Tom—_ you’re from another timeline. This is another timeline.”

He looks at me and shakes his head. “That’s impossible, I made a time turner, not a fucking interdimensional travelling fuck ever.” He wheezes, and shakes his head. “That’s _preposterous,_ Hermione. How the fuck would—I checked my notes. They were _immaculate_.”

Notes— _notes_?

His eyes are frantic, searching, looking at me. “But—but you don’t remember. Or you—it never happened, here…” I notice the precise moment that he realizes it too, and his pupils are blown and he is smiling— _smiling_ , and it fits his face so perfectly—and laughing maniacally. ”Holy _shit._ Out of all the fucking parallel universes I had to accidentally travel to one where I am a collosal piece of _shit_.”

He smiles at me, I just frown. This is odd, this boy is not Voldemort. He is not a murderer. “You’re—this is so odd.” I say, and shake my head. “You were tinkering with your time turner?”

He exhales and gasps, and shakes his head and nods and gestures to his piece of parchment, and shakes his head again. He is making me dizzy, so so dizzy. “Yeah, I—I had to because time turners only go a few hours. I went half a century, right? And it was so fucking _uncomfortable_ , so I just never stopped dicking around with it and—and—“ He shakes his had. “Fuck, holy fucking shit.”

This feels wrong—and I suppose that I understand why that is because this boy isn’t even supposed to be in this dimension. But he isn’t a murderer, or maybe he’s just fucking _lying_ to me, or something.

He told me to look into his _mind_ , though. Look through his memories.

Memories can be manipulated.

“You—are you telling the truth?” It’s such a stupid question, he could lie again just as easily. I wince and look away from him.

“Yes!” he says, breathlessly. “Yes, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t lie about this, Hermione.”

_Hermione._

“I wouldn’t know that.” I snap. “You were a _murderer_ here, Riddle.”

He recoils from me, I almost regret it. I think I would have, if I was _his_ Hermione.

“I—“ his expression is thunderous, upset. It almost reminds me of Voldemort, when he found out Harry was alive. “Well that wasn’t _me_.”

And I don’t know the truth.

“Veritaserum.” I say. “You---we have some Veritaserum.” I say, I look away from him. “Are you willing to take some?”

 _Well that wasn’t **me**_ **.**

Not him not him not him not him.

 _Seventeen_ , a _murderer._

A clapping sound.

A blinding light.

I need to know.

“Yes.” He says.

I’m out the door before I could breathe again.


End file.
